Cut
by harllett
Summary: [Miracle]Mention the name Ralph Cox to an American and you’ll get nothing. No look of recognition, no smile, no memories. I was the last player cut from the 1980 USA Olympic hockey team.


**Disclaimer **: I own nothing in this little ficlet.

**Summary** : Mention the name Ralph Cox to an American and you'll get nothing. No look of recognition, no smile, no memories. I was the last player cut from the 1980 USA Olympic hockey team.

**Rating** : G

**Author's** **Note** : I seem to remember posting this before. I think it got removed, for some reason. Hopefully that won't happen this time! I found it on an old floppy disk and figured it deserved to be posted…

**XX**

People don't remember my name.

Mention the names Jimmy Craig, Mike Eurozione, or Mark Johnson to any American who was at least 10 years old in 1980 and you'll see a look of recognition on their face. Mention the name Ralph Cox and you'll get nothing.

If people do remember me, it's with pity. Because I was the last player to be cut from the 1980 USA Olympic ice hockey team.

I remember that moment like it was yesterday. Craig walked into the locker room, as he did every day – no-one thought anything of it. Then he walked over to me and said those words that still echo through my mind. "Herb wants to see you." There was no need to ask why – I knew what it was about. Everyone did. We'd been waiting for it, but my god it shocked people.

It was a shock on two levels, I think. Firstly, the general shock that it had happened. Although we knew it was coming, I think everybody had managed to block it out of their minds that someone would soon be cut. We were happy as a 21 strong team, it was comfortable, it was the norm – and somehow we'd become wrapped up in a cocoon where no-one could touch us. The surprise everyone felt was displayed by the utter silence that fell over the locker room. It had been six months since we came together as a team, and not once had that room been so quiet. You could have heard a piece of stick tape drop.

Secondly – and I don't want to sound conceited here – I don't think people were expecting it to be me. To be completely honest, people expected it to be Rizzo. Don't get me wrong, we didn't _want_ it to be, but it seemed inevitable. Even Rizzo thought so. Herb gave him such a hard time, trying to get the best from him, but he didn't get it. Not then, at least. So it was a shock, to Rizzo more than anyone.

The guys looked at me with such pity, I almost couldn't stand it. I also couldn't stand the look of guilt on Rizzo's face. Hell, he deserved to make it – maybe I did too, but someone had to go.

When I went in to see Herb, I knew beyond a shade of doubt what was coming….but it still hurt when he said the words. Sure, he was nice about it, said he wished he could keep me – but then, he wanted to keep all of us. But he couldn't.

I suppose it was between me and Rizzo who got cut, and although part of me is glad that one of my best friends got to fulfil his dream, part of me is jealous. I feel bad about that, but it's natural, right?

I guess Herb just saw the potential in Rizzo, hell, we all did. And my god did he fulfil that potential. He scored the winning goal against the Soviets, for god's sake! And his leadership qualities…they were incomparable. Any guy on that team would have done anything for Rizzo – he just earned respect. And he could have got any guy on that team to do anything for him.

I guess there just wasn't enough potential in me.

I sometimes torture myself with thoughts of what could have been. What it would have been like to win a gold medal. It would have been the fulfilment of one of my lifelong dreams, and I'm sure nothing could ever compare to that.

I was there, at the game against the Soviets, and again when they won gold. I wasn't going to go, didn't know if I could handle it…but those boys were some of my favourite people in the whole world, and I'd be damned if I let pain and spite get in the way of me supporting them. When the buzzer went, and they'd won the medal, I cried. I cried with happiness, I cried for the boys, but I also cried for me. I couldn't stop imagining what it would be like to be out there, screaming and crying and hugging and celebrating with them.

The worst moments of torture are when I think about what may have happened if I'd made the team, and someone else hadn't. Maybe we wouldn't have won. Maybe I just plain wasn't good enough, and if Herb had chosen to save me, everyone's dreams would have gone down the toilet. In a way, I think that would have been worse – for me to screw up everyone else's chances of happiness.

On a purely selfless level, I think it's best that the dreams of a whole nation came true. On the fateful day when the USA beat the Soviets, every single American could be proud of who they were and what they had achieved. If I had been there, that might not have happened. But on a selfish level, I think, I missed out on _my_ dream. I missed out on being proud of who _I_ was, and what _I_ had achieved. Because even though I made the 21, I ultimately failed – I didn't make the grade.

I was so close to my dream, I could smell it. If I'd reached out I could have touched it. But I didn't achieve it – I didn't get the chance. I didn't get the chance for personal pleasure, or personal glory.

I didn't get the chance to have people chanting my name.

I didn't get the chance to have people remember my name, even twenty years on.

I didn't get the chance to win.

I got cut.


End file.
